


One Hellacious Christmas

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Greg's an Angel, M/M, Mycroft is Satan, Sort Of, a puppy is involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: The King of Hell receives a letter that sets him on a task requiring the advice and assistance of a certain, manly angel...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 209
Kudos: 333
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very much born of a prompt from [Reece Shearsmith's Twitter account](https://twitter.com/ReeceShearsmith/status/1204770101708361729) and the proddings of the illustrious members of the Mystrade fandom [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat) and [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie). Sincere thanks to one and all!

“Sir?”

Mycroft turned a cautionary eye towards the demon scuttling towards his desk to make it clear that an unnecessary interruption to his work was very likely to find the demon transformed into an insect who would live the next few millennium circling a dung pile and avoiding being eaten by other demons who had a taste for dung eaters of all forms, even tiny ones.

“Yes?”

“You… have a letter, sir.”

A letter. He had never received a letter. Sacrifices of any and all manner to be sure, which were utterly useless to him since the sacrificee was invariably an innocent sort, so the soul certainly did not find it’s way down here to supplement his ranks, and a countless quantity of prayers, beseechings and the like, but never a letter.

“Why?”

“I have no idea, sir. I tried to tell the postal carrier that there was a mistake but they were adamant that this was the correct address and they were duty bound to see it delivered. I take it their supervisor was somewhat… harsh… about violations of the postal code and would be most put out by a failed delivery.”

Stretching out his long-fingered hand, Mycroft waited for the letter to be placed into it and for the little demon to scurry away as quickly as it had scurried in before inspecting the letter more closely. Yes, the address _was_ correct, for what it was worth.

_ To: Satan _

If one was a pettifogger, one could argue he was not, in fact, Satan, for that buffoon had perished in the Great War, despite this not-Satan’s extremely detailed and carefully thought out battle plans. Which the buffoon had botched monstrously leading to their defeat and his summary demise. The fact that the victor in their little skirmish found it utterly hilarious to install _him_ in said buffoon’s intended position here in Hell was simply rude, but not wholly unexpected for someone who allowed the invention of whoopee cushions and tabloid media.

_ From: Penelope Farthington _

A girl. Likely a younger version of the breed, given the handwriting was somewhat unpracticed and obviously done slowly and carefully so the lettering was clear to read.

_ Dear Satan, _

_ I want a puppy for Christmas. Mummy says I shan’t have one because they are dirty and lots of work but I don’t mind that and if she won’t get me one then you can so I’m writing you and not telling her and having Sarah the cook mail this because I can’t reach the post box. Any puppy is fine, but I want a sweet one who likes to play. I hope you are well and can have a nice nap after Christmas because you must get very tired delivering gifts. _

_ Penelope _

Well… that was… interesting. Why was the child asking _him_ for her desires? That was not quite in the job description for someone in his position. She was polite, though. And hoped for a companion, apparently, with which to play. Loneliness _could_ be a terrible thing. For a human, that is. Not for the King of Hell, but a tiny human might suffer greatly if they had not the companionship of a friend. Farthington… no, the name was not familiar. Not a family with whom he had any current or past dealings so it was somewhat a mystery why she felt him a good candidate for requesting a boon.

Especially at Christmas. Not really his area. Admittedly, he did have a passing acquaintance with the lad. Had been there at his birth, actually. Left a gift! Not one any of the songs and stories mentioned because, apparently, it wasn’t as sexy as gold, frankincense and myrrh, but every young man should have a good head for figures, so bestowing a laudable ability for arithmetic was an excellent gift, by any metric. At least The One Upstairs sent a nice thank you note. That was collegial.

But Penelope wanted a puppy. Where even did one acquire a puppy? And what sort was proper for a young girl? Puppies and girls were also not really his area, so this was rapidly becoming an astonishingly complex conundrum. Perhaps…

Stepping from his desk to look out the window, Mycroft gave his vision a rather expansive boost and… yes. As expected, there was the other conundrum currently vexing in his existence. Not that this one was particularly complex since his motivations were clear and directed his actions unfailingly. The conundrum lay more in… fire and brimstone, the angel was gorgeous. Angels were, of course. It went with the whole angel business, however, this one exceeded even angelic standards of beauty and by a toe-curling amount. Perhaps that was why this angel was here, in the deepest circle of Hell, working to redeem the Fallen to restore them to grace. One didn’t choose that job, one was assigned it and, though they would deny it to the end of time, angels were a ridiculously envious lot. It was pitifully easy to imagine Gregory’s angelic superior being so consumed with envy of his physical glory that he was cast down here to toil among the worst of the Fallen and most odious of sinners where his beauty could no longer stir the petty evil and jealousy in certain angels’ breasts.

However, if anyone knew about Christmas, puppies and young human females wanting puppies for Christmas, it would be Gregory. Perhaps it was time for a little chat…


	2. Chapter 2

With a snap of his fingers, Mycroft summoned one of his minions and bade them request the angel’s presence in his study. It was not a unique thing, not even an uncommon one. They had spoken before, about this particular fallen angel or that specific sinner and often found ways to lay a path to salvation for the individual to take or not take as their free will chose, so having Gregory in his study could not, in any manner, prompt nervousness or the tidying of his desk or quick check of his appearance in the large mirror that was more often used to communicate with various angels and demons under his influence than to see if his hair and garments were presenting him at his physical best.

“You… asked to see me?”

That was fast.

“Ah, Gregory… thank you for agreeing to meet with me today.”

Looking as radiant and virile as the most tempting incubus in my realm. No, _more_ radiant and virile. You put them very much to shame. Which was probably a sin, but we do approve of those here. Very much, in fact.

“Always happy for a chat!”

Though, Greg had to admit, chats with the King of Hell were always a touch… strange. Affable, absolutely, but there always seemed some odd anxiety His Majesty had when they were visiting. Like he was nervous about something. Not that there was anything His Nibs had to worry about here in Hell. His rule was unquestioned and absolute. A simple angel certainly couldn’t muck that up or make a challenge or do anything really to make one bit of trouble in Mycroft’s existence. Not that _this_ angel wanted to do that, of course.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Mycroft was a decent sort, all things considered. Genuinely believed in free will and if a condemned soul wanted to work towards redemption, Mycroft certainly wouldn’t stand in the way! And, no, his not wanting to muck things up had absolutely nothing to do with His Majesty being one of the most stunning creatures this angel’s eyes had ever landed upon. Angelic beauty was one thing, but Mycroft’s beauty came with an extra bit of… fire. Delicious, smoldering fire that elevated that magnificence to something positively sinful. Which, to be fair, was something they very much approved of here, so it might negate the sin part and leave the soul admiring the beauty free and clear.

“Excellent, for I expect this one to be somewhat… truly I am at a loss how to proceed.”

Mycroft? At a loss? That was not something Greg _ever_ expected to hear…

“Ooh… that doesn’t sound good.”

“It is a rather unique problem with which I am presented and feel your assistance would be most beneficial.”

Handing over the letter to the angel who certainly had not taken pains to miracle a fresh robe onto his body and done a little something with the weed patch of hair on his head so it didn’t appear quite so weedy, Mycroft waited while the aforementioned angel read through the text and undid the unweeding of his hair by threading a thick set of fingers through the strands.

“Oh. Yeah, I can see why that gave you a bit of a shock. Easy to see the mistake, though. Little thing just got the spelling wrong.”

“Spelling?”

“See here? It should be Santa, not Satan.”

“Santa? Explain.”

“Santa Claus! Father Christmas, St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Pere Noel… jolly man who gives gifts to children at Christmas.”

“Oh… yes, that certainly does not describe me.”

“Children send him letters saying what they want and on Christmas morning, they may find something left for them they asked for.”

“I understand. It is clear, then, you must see the letter delivered to this Santa so he can give Penelope her puppy.”

“Uh… no. He’s not real, actually. Just a lovely thing children believe and adults foster by helping them write their letters, leaving out nibbles for Santa, and buying the gifts so the child has a happy surprise when they wake on Christmas Day.”

“Now, I do _not_ understand… how will Penelope gain her dog if Santa is not a real entity?”

“She won’t, I suppose.”

“But… that is unacceptable.”

“Well, it’s a bit sad, true, but she’ll get other things and maybe one day her mum and dad will get her the puppy she wants.”

“ _One day_ does not help her now. That does not give her the friend she wants… you cannot find that an acceptable situation, Gregory. Denying a child a friend?”

“I… no, in a theoretical sense, I _don’t_ find that acceptable, but…”

“Then we must act.”

What?

“What?”

“We must act to deliver Penelope the puppy she desires for Christmas.”

“No?”

“Incorrect.”

“Very correct. First, she may not even live somewhere where a puppy would be happy. Places to run and play, that sort of thing.”

“She says in her letter that she hopes to play with the puppy. That puts your objection to rest.”

“Not in the slightest. Not to mention, where are _you_ going to get a puppy? There aren’t any down here. All dogs go Heaven.”

“True, but I suspect the issue is not with the specific species of the gift, but that Penelope wants a friend. A companion. Someone to ease her loneliness.”

“You’re reading a lot into that short note, Mycroft.”

“It is very much my business to deduce a great deal from a paucity of clues and I am confident I am correct in my interpretation. Given the undeniability of my properly interpreting this situation, a suitable substitute for a puppy _can_ be found and I know where to look to find it.”

There was an adamancy driving the King of Hell’s words that puzzled Greg, but he couldn’t argue against the good intentions. Which were profoundly paradoxical for Satan incarnate, but Mycroft was nothing if not a complex individual. And more than a touch maddening.

“You do? _You_ know where we can find a Christmas puppy for Penelope.”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear. Should I ask?”

“Let it be a surprise.”

“Ok.”

Though praying will now commence and will be centered around the nature of surprises and why good ones always were a happier thing to be handed than bad ones…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The puppy is based off the image Reece Shearsmith posted on this twitter, which is The Favorite by Omar Rayann. Here's [a link](https://www.ranker.com/list/omar-rayyan-best-works/samantha-dillinger) to some of his works. The Favorite is at the top of the list. Perfect puppy for a little girl's happy Christmas surprise!

“Where are we?”

Greg looked out at the large expanse of surprisingly non-hell-like Hell, feeling his mind grasping for any explanation for what he was seeing and finding nothing at all.

“It is, for lack of a better term, a shelter.”

“For what?”

Was… was the King of Hell looking sheepish?

“Though all dogs are accepted into Heaven, the same cannot be said for other… creatures.”

Greg looked out again and focused keenly on the dozen or so shapes tearing about the large stretch of conjured land, gamboling like drunken weasels and making the most ear-wrenching of sounds.

“Those are demons!”

“In a sense… they _are_ demonic, but by accident of creation or the curdled intentions of this or that dark sorcerer. It is not their fault that your employer will not acknowledge that they have their own form of innocence and allow them into a gentler place to spend eternity. I think one would do very nicely for little Penelope.”

Greg looked again at the romping demons, with fangs, claws, tentacles, glowing eyes and various other horrific features and wondered at precisely what point Satan 2.0 lost his mind.

“Have you ever seen a puppy? Or a little girl, for that matter. Those… they’re hideous!”

Oh no. That’s not a comforting glare.

“You believe only those with pleasant features are deserving of love or friendship?”

The not-comforting glare was being given for a very good reason, too. Drat.

“No, I don’t believe that. Not in the slightest. I’m sorry if I sounded as if I did.”

“Very well… your apology is accepted. In any case, Penelope did not request a comely puppy, simply a sweet one.”

“Ok, sweet. Not exactly a quality I typically associate with demons and I think you would agree with me on that.”

“True, for the most part. However, we vary. For example, I think… yes, that one will do rather splendidly.”

Mycroft waved over a small, lumbering demon who had been chasing a flaming orb thrown by one of the shelter’s minders and now trotted over to answer the summons.

“See, Gregory? Not a bit of malevolence to be found.”

Greg looked at the slavering beast, with saggy, warty, brown flesh, an enormous, fang-filled mouth, long, sharp horns and beady eyes peeking through thick folds of skin, then started to object until he looked again into those beady eyes. Which were… curious. Not angry or ravenous or hate-filled, but curious. Almost… hopeful. And, as he watched, the creature snuffled loudly and waddled a few heavy steps to drop onto Greg’s feet and begin rolling, as if it was delighted to meet this new person standing with the undisputed Lord of the Damned. Who was looking more than slightly proud of himself at the moment.

“Oh… you’re a happy little fellow, aren’t you?”

“He enjoys being scratched upon his brow.”

“Between the horns?”

“Yes. It makes his bottom wiggle, though I know not why.”

Greg shrugged and gave the rolling, growling demon a head scratch and couldn’t hold back a smile seeing it quickly jump to stand for a _better_ scratch and madly wriggle its bottom as long as Greg was doing the scratching. If he was honest, he wasn’t very knowledgeable about dogs, but he’d seen a few through the millennia and some were fairly scary looking. A bit mangy or odd. Didn’t mean they weren’t good dogs; they made their way to their heavenly reward no matter what they looked like, so…

“He’s licking me.”

“That mean he likes you.”

It was a slobbery lick, but the slobber wasn’t trying to melt his flesh like some demon spittle could manage. Not for angel flesh, of course, but it didn’t stop the buggers from trying. This one just wanted to… lick. And wriggle. And…

“What’s he doing now?”

With his little hoppy dance that made all his flesh folds wobble.

“He desires to be held.”

“Really?”

“Many creatures enjoy being embraced, from what I am told.”

“Yeah, that’s true. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“Is it?”

“You’ve never been held?”

“No.”

“Hugged?”

“Of course not. Have you forgotten to whom you are speaking?”

“No… I just thought… never?”

“Not a thing one would willingly do to me, would you not say?”

Greg found he had a _lot_ to say on that subject, actually, but simply gave a rather watery grin and felt his heart grow heavy for the man he was facing. It had never struck him how terribly lonely Mycroft’s life must be. Not only was he confined to a realm where love and affection were more than slightly frowned upon, but where he was the most powerful and feared _of_ those confined to this dark and tragic place. Someone nobody would ever consider reaching out even to ask if things were going well or to share a glass of wine, which Hell did a surprisingly good job of making.

“I suppose not. Alright then, let me give this… oh, he’s a hefty lad… a bit of a boost.”

Taking the snuffling, growling beast in his arms, Greg struggled to find purchase among the folds of skin, which seemed to be mostly what the demon was made of besides head. Which quickly laid itself on Greg’s shoulder and huffed a contented, brimstone-laden breath.

“There. As I stated – a sweet puppy.”

Greg stared at the tall, pale figure wearing clothes so black not a speck of light escaped their inky threads and saw something he’d never seen before. A genuine smile.

It looked good on him.

“Uhhh… well, I have to say he’s a…”

“Sweet.”

“… sure, sweet little demon. What does he eat?”

Please say it’s not small human children. Named Penelope.

“Most anything, actually. We have a devil of a time, pardon my pun, keeping him and his brethren provided with toys as they tend to eat them as readily as they do whatever else presents itself to their mouth. Or mouths. Or whatever serves a similar purpose.”

Toys. The Crown Prince of Darkness saw the little demons had toys. Ok, this was officially the most adorable thing ever and that was not something one would ever expect for the deepest, dankest reaches of Hell.

“That shouldn’t pose a problem for Penelope and her family, then. Is he…”

Greg paused a moment as the demonling made a sound that fell somewhat between a banshee’s shriek and the cover of a crypt falling onto a mausoleum floor.

“Ah, he has spied a playmate.”

Following the direction of Mycroft’s gaze, Greg saw another small demon carrying what appeared to be the severed limb of… something… in its mouth.

“Let him down for a romp, Gregory. Best allow the puppy a final bit of playtime with his little chums before he gains his new home.”

Greg set down the demon who rambled over to the other small demon to begin a grotesque tug-of-war with the… maybe arm. Could be a leg. It’d been gnawed on quite a bit so it was hard to know for certain.

“I don’t think there are a lot of little chums for him to play with where Penelope lives, you know. He might be a bit lonely being the only demon up there. No mucky limbs to chew on either, unless he does a spot of grave robbing.”

“That will not impede his happiness in the slightest. He, as with the other charges here, make their fun where they find it.”

Watching the two hideous creatures play, Greg had to concede they seemed to be having a rollicking time and, if you squinted hard, they might be mistaken for two rambunctious pups at play. From what he could remember, at least. The last time he’d actually seen two rambunctious pups at play was five or six centuries or so ago and things may have changed a bit since then.

“Ok, so that’s food sorted, play sorted… will he get sick? That would be a terrible shame for little Penelope if he got sick and died three days after Christmas.”

“I cannot imagine why he would. Humans are the fragile creatures, not this hearty lot.”

Another positive on the puppy’s ledger. Greg still couldn’t shake the notion that this was all a horrible, terrible idea but… there didn’t seem to really be any concrete evidence to back up that notion so…

“Ok, then. What do we do now?”

“If this Santa person is fictitious, then it falls upon us to deliver the puppy ourselves, I suppose.”

“Us?”

“Who else?”

“I… I haven’t been on Earth in… centuries! Are you even allowed up there?”

“I am allowed to go wherever I please. I simply cannot… tarry.”

“Oh. Learned something new. That still doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for us to go up there and… is he having a wee on my leg?”

“Our puppy is excited about making new friends. He shall be positively overjoyed to meet young Penelope, I have no doubt.”

“I do, but it looks like I’m outvoted.”

“Splendid. A Christmas adventure. I am almost… giddy at the thought.”

“Do you have wine?”

“I… yes. Rather a lot of it, in fact..”

“Good. That may not be enough, but it’s a start.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was nighttime, which was a blessing, since Mycroft had simply waved his hand once the puppy had finished playing with his friends and transported them to the human realm where the rather motley trio didn’t quite fit in with the ambience.

“Dreary. But it ever is here.”

Greg looked about and had to admit it _was_ a touch… bland… but compared to the chaos of hell, it was a welcome change.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Near young Penelope’s home, provided she correctly printed her address.”

“Well, that’s not a certain thing, given she sent her letter to _you_ , but we can hope. So… how do we do this?”

Mycroft glanced about then scowled as a combination of barking and whining sounded in the air.

“What is that appalling racket?”

“Uh… from what I remember, it’s a dog.”

“Why is it making that ridiculous noise?”

Greg looked in the direction of the noise and sighed.

“Because your puppy…”

“Our puppy.”

“ _Our_ puppy is scaring it. Come on…”

Hustling over to the fence behind which a frightened dog was torn between trying to chase away an intruder and cowering in fear _from_ the intruder, Greg shook his head and picked up their puppy to distract it from trying to fathom out the smaller creature it had been facing.

“Ugh… what an uninspiring animal.”

Mycroft’s voice was nothing other than its typical self but animals have a keener sense of things than humans, so the dog was now racing away from the fence, refusing to look back in case its doom was following fast on its heels.

“It’s… I have no idea what particular sort it is… was…, but it seems a fairly standard dog.”

“Then it is doubly fortuitous that the letter made it to me and not into other hands. Penelope should not be burdened with such a lackluster creature. Our puppy is far superior and shall make a much better friend to her.”

“Ummm… why is it superior?”

“By the flames, Gregory, look at that ludicrous thing cowering in the bushes! Could it protect her from an invading demon hoard? I say nay.”

“Is a demon invasion likely to happen to her? Ever?”

“If one does not plan for contingencies, one is vanquished by them.”

“Ok, but our waddly fellow here wouldn’t be much good at doing much demon vanquishing himself. First, he’s a bit… slow and…”

“Untrue. Observe…”

Mycroft made a gesture and a cold, amethyst light bloomed in the distance which caused the demonette to lunge out of Greg’s arms and race off at nearly supersonic speed to retrieve the source of the light. Which it promptly ate then sat looking between Greg and Mycroft with pure satisfaction on its face.

“What a good puppy you are! Gregory, provide reward scratches.”

“Why not you?”

“He is a bit muddy.”

Knowing well that the Prince of Darkness could spy through that darkness perfectly and see his rolled eyes, Greg bent over and gave their puppy a round of scratches and pats that earned him many bum wiggles and what he’d come to recognize as happy sounds from the fleshy beast.

“Our puppy, as you saw, can be most speedy when he has cause to do so.”

“Like when you toss him a treat?”

“You may trust my word that he would happily consume the flesh of the most nefarious demon as a treat if he felt peckish.”

“Or he might eat Penelope!”

“He would not consume his friend. Really, Gregory, one would assume you were more aware of the parameters of this friend business than me, yet you do seem somewhat oblivious as to the most basic precepts.”

“You’re assuming a lot yourself, you know. First, that she will like her puppy and second that her puppy will like her!”

“A child and a puppy… that is a scenario for which there is but a single outcome.”

A dozen horrific and terrifying outcomes quickly flitted through Greg’s mind, but they were pushed aside for the moment to give him the mental focus to heft the happily-hopping puppy who wanted, again, to be picked up. Alright, admittedly, this _was_ a very sweet puppy and if you didn’t concentrate on the fact he didn’t look anything like a puppy, or smell or feel or sound like one, he was a bit of a doll to tote about. Who gazed at you as if you were the most important thing in his life who he loved with his whole heart. If a demon _could_ love, that is…

“Well, we’ll see. And keep a good thought! So, what now? Drop the little fellow in her yard and be done with it?”

Mycroft’s face was usually calm and placid, but Greg had developed skills for interpreting even the smallest twitch of an eyebrow. None of those skills were needed now, however, as a blind angel couldn’t have missed the withering stare he was being given. And professionally, too.

“Drop him in the yard. I… I am astonished, Gregory, at your lack of Christmas spirit.”

“WHAT! You’re… you’re Satan! First, you don’t celebrate Christmas, even the secular form, and you don’t even know what the Christmas spirit is. Probably read the phrase in a book somewhere and thought it was pithy.”

“That could not be further from the truth. If you are genuinely unaware of the lengthy pleas against finding themselves in my domain I have to hear that often feature the sinner’s effusive Christmas spirit, which is the only spirit they demonstrate for the fellow man at any other time _during_ their year, then I am profoundly disappointed in you.”

Greg prepared to throw back a fiery retort then realized there wasn’t anything sitting on his tongue but tongue.

“Ok, yeah, you have a point. I’m sorry I questioned your knowledge of the Christmas spirit. However, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s not exactly a sentiment I’d expect you to hold in your heart. Your proverbial heart, that is.”

“I have no hatred of humanity, per se, as you well know. I simply object to a certain someone’s naïve belief that they are special creatures, each and all worthy of unconditional love, when I have an immeasurable body of evidence to the contrary. However, I absolutely credit that some are delightful individuals, worth my efforts of assistance. A child at Christmas… only the blackest of souls would not reach out and do what they could to bring that child a measure of holiday cheer.”

Opting, in the spirit of harmony, not to mention that there was theoretically nobody with a blacker soul than Mycroft/Satan, Greg simply nodded and huffed out a long breath that the puppy in his arms tried to lick out of the air.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Penelope expects this Santa person to gift her with the puppy, therefore, we must make that happen.”

“How?”

“Must I think of everything?”

“Apparently.”

“Very well. I was considering some form of ruse.”

“You usually are but how does that apply to us now?”

“Penelope believes she shall be visited by Santa, so visited she shall be.”

“He’s not real.”

“Hence the ruse. Were you not listening?”

“I was, but I’m still seeing dots with no connection between them.”

“Santa, Gregory. You shall appear as Santa for young Penelope to gain her puppy and revel in the spirit of Christmas.”

“What? Me?”

“Of course. You cannot expect me to do it.”

“But I can. This was your idea, remember?”

“While I may not fully comprehend the intricacies of the various traditions and celebrations, I cannot believe them so loosely organized that I successfully could masquerade as a beloved figure within those traditions and celebrations to deceive young Penelope. She would rightly question the situation and, mayhaps, gain the understanding that Santa is but a creation of fiction. That… it would be horrific! A complete destruction of the Christmas spirit which would lay at your feet for all eternity.”

“ _My_ feet.”

“ _You_ are the one refusing to participate in my plans.”

“Because they’re loony! How can I be Santa?”

“Affect a disguise.”

“You’re the Prince of Lies. Isn’t that more your area?”

“We have covered this ground, Gregory, and found it barren. So it remains. Now, what garments does this Santa typically wear? Something stylish, I hope.”

“It varies, but I am not going to wear a Santa suit and beard…”

“He is bearded? I have never imagined you with a beard, but it is not an entirely ghastly mental picture.”

Not an entirely ghastly… meaning partially ghastly. This was the boulder that continued to roll down the hill. And a certain angel was standing at the base of that hill waiting to catch it in the face. Along with a beard.

“Doesn’t matter because I’m not wearing one.”

“I disagree.”

Greg felt an itching on his face and did everything possible not to reach down to feel his chin himself but the excited growling and face-licking by the puppy served the same purpose.

“Did you put a beard on me?”

“I did! More of goatee, actually, but the style choice was simply a lark. Unless, of course, Santa sports a goatee.”

“He most certainly doesn’t! Get this off my face.”

“As soon as you inform me as to the proper style for your Santa disguise and we have completed our mission.”

Greg was an angel. By definition, he was suffused with the goodness and light of Heaven. Which made the fact the wanted to punch the Devil straight in the face both worrying and extremely on brand.

“I can’t be Santa! He’s… jolly.”

“I have found you a jolly soul.”

“And… round.”

“Spherical?”

“Ummm… in places. He’s a beefy fellow. Probably because he lives at the North Pole and it’s bloody cold up there.”

“I thought he was not real.”

“The fake person pretend lives in the very real North Pole where it’s bloody cold.”

“I see. This fellow has somewhat a detailed story behind him. Well, easily managed...”

“NO! Don’t you dare. It’s bad enough I’ve got this hair on my face, but I’m not going to be turned fully into a chubby Santa just because you think it’s funny, which is the real reason you’re doing this, don’t bother lying because it’s true. I can see it on your smug face.”

“I am smug?”

“You’re radiating smugness.”

“I do appreciate being radiant. However, that does not factor into your refusing to appear as a credible Santa.”

“I’m not refusing since I was never actually _asked_ to do it. But… I suppose if someone has to, I can wear the Santa suit and make it look… hefty. But you have to fix the hair on my face.”

“What style is appropriate?”

“A big white beard. Think about those various paintings the humans have done of what they think God looks like and make it whiter and more… old gent-ish.”

Mycroft frowned in thought then Greg felt something more than a small tuft of hair sprout over his face, much to the puppy’s delight.

“Stop trying to eat my beard!”

“He approves! Here, tell me if I have fully attained the necessary look.”

An enormous mirror appeared in front of Greg who peered into it with the typical embarrassment of those who don’t particularly enjoy looking into the mirror because they always worry it means they’re going to be considered vain. Which was a sin he very much didn’t want on his soul. Took too much work! Gluttony was a much better one…

“Ok, I have to admit that’s a proper Santa beard. Now… I can’t believe I’m saying this… I need the same sort of hair. Not as long, but fluffy and white.”

“Like… this?”

Greg’s silver locks were replaced with a credible head of Santa hair and he nodded approvingly.

“That’ll do. Now, can you hold this one while I make a suit?”

“He is muddy.”

“He is not muddy but you _are_ a ninny.”

“What is a ninny?”

“You. Weren’t you listening?”

“Very droll.”

Mycroft pointed at the ground and ignored Greg’s glare while he set down the puppy, who began sniffing about and following his nose wherever it chose to lead. With the puppy out of his arms, Greg took a look at said arms, and legs, and the rest of him and miracled a Santa suit and hat. And, because he may have a small habit of watching Christmas programs snatched from the human television medium, he miracled a couple of pillows for padding since that seemed to be the pad material of choice for those forced to dress as Santa for a party, a lost wager, or to rob a bank.

“That is Santa?”

“You expected something different?”

“I had no appreciable expectations, but even that paltry few did not anticipate this.”

“Just remember, it was your idea and all your fault.”

“Are all angels such incessant complainers?”

“No!”

“Then you are uniquely difficult. Not a surprise, of course, but a good thing to have confirmed.”

Greg frowned a moment, then gathered his will to give himself something to smile about again.

“Gregory…”

“That’s my name.”

“What did you do?”

“Given you a chance to more actively participate in our Christmas ruse.”

“There… are bells on my shoes. Which are not my shoes. And… pointy.”

“A very important part of the Santa story is that he has helpers. Elves.”

“Elves?”

“Elves.”

“How dare you.”

“Easily! And look how elfy you are with your new clothes.”

This time it was Greg who called up a mirror for Mycroft to gaze into so he could see the glory of his tidy elf cap, smock and tights. Which were a jaunty green and, Greg had to admit, emphasized to a truly unholy degree the length of Mycroft’s legs.

“I am the King of Hell, Prince of Lies, The Supreme Despoiler, Satan himself and you…”

“Made you an elf. A fetching one. It’s a cute look, don’t you think?”

Greg reached out with a toe and jingled one of the bells on Mycroft’s shoe, grinning all the while and grinning harder when the puppy ambled back over to them to investigate this interesting new sound.

“See! He likes it, too.”

Enough to eat one of the bells, then wander off again because there was a myriad of new smells to investigate and he was nothing if not a thorough odor researcher. Gregory, however, helpfully miracled a new bell on Mycroft’s shoe. Even more jingly than the first.

“I am warning you… _Santa_ …”

“Are… are you really Santa?”

The small voice next to them caused both men to whirl and face its source. Which required looking down since the source scarcely came up to their waists in height. Step 1 – gulp. Step 2 – try smiling. Step 3 – gulp again because that was the weakest attempt at smiling the universe had ever seen and done in stereo which made it doubly humiliating. It was going to be a long night…


	5. Chapter 5

“I… uh… well… and who might… ummm… _you_ be little girl?”

Greg awarded himself a hundred heavenly awards for being the most articulate angel ever in creation.

“Penelope. I live there.”

The little girl pointed towards a handsome house at the end of a long drive then stared back up at the two men who were now sharing a look that might be described as a ping-pong of panic as they tried to get the other one to step up to manage the situation while desperately thinking of something to say in case it was _their_ ping pong paddle that missed the shot and they lost the prize of staying silent and avoiding the embarrassment of being an incredibly long-lived being that had zero idea how to talk to a child.

Greg lost but only due, he felt, to the fact that Mycroft cheated by hopping behind his newly bulked bulk and hiding like a craven coward.

“Oh… well… how does it go?... oh yeah! Ho Ho Ho little Penelope! I am indeed Santa, the real one as you can see from my bushy white beard and red suit and being a tad on the plump side. And I have an elf!”

Who was now bodily dragged forward to stand next to the stand-in Santa, jingling all the way.

“He’s tall for an elf.”

“He’s… a special elf.”

“How?”

“The tall bit.”

“Why’s that special?”

“Ummm… he’s good for reaching things on high shelves.”

“Oh. Don’t you have a ladder?”

Mycroft’s ‘You are being outwitted by a child. How delightful!’ was summarily ignored.

“Sure I do. Made of… ice! Because it’s cold in the North Pole.”

“You don’t have heat in your house? The ice would melt, wouldn’t it?”

Greg wondered if his angelic superiors would agree to take a petition to the Almighty requesting that mocking laughter be added to the list of mortal sins. Not that the man at his side could be cast any further into Hell, but it would be a victory of principle.

“It’s magic ice.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

The proud smile adorning Greg’s face didn’t last long.

“So why do you need a tall elf then?”

“Because… he likes to sing songs. Do you want to hear one?”

Mycroft’s fresh round of mocking laughter stopped suddenly and he glared ferociously at Greg while Penelope clapped her hands and nodded.

“Go ahead, Mr. Tall Elf. Have a go. Something with loads of holiday spirit. Use your bells, too, so it’s extra special.”

“No.”

“Don’t be shy! Let’s hear a peppy Christmas tune from my special singing elf.”

It had been awhile since Greg had heard Enochian spoken so fluently but he remembered enough to catch the filthy bits easily enough.

“Yes! Please, I want to hear a song! Something pretty.”

“You heard her. Something pretty.”

“INSTEAD… why do we not attend to the reason for our presence here?”

Greg opened his mouth to say something then paused and closed said mouth again because, first, Mycroft had a point. Second, Penelope was wearing what appeared to be a nightdress and slippers which, even though _he_ couldn’t feel the cold, humans could and she had to be frightfully chilled. And, third, he hadn’t seen their puppy in a few minutes and that could mean something that ranged from he was just getting a bit dirtier to he’d eaten the dog they’d met, their owner and a few local trees.

“That’s actually a good idea. Penelope, what say we see you safe inside so it’s not so cold, alright?”

“Alright. I saw a light that I normally don’t see when I’m looking out and I wanted to see what it was.”

The ‘well done’ smile Greg gave Mycroft was handily waved off by the man how now realized he had bells attached to his shirt cuffs and hated his life a thousand times more than he had before.

“Elf, would you like to hunt about for… our other friend… and I’ll see Penelope sorted for a spot of warmth?”

“Yes, I was wondering myself where he had gotten off to. I’ll be but a moment.”

Smiling what he hoped was a cheery smile at Penelope and making a rude gesture behind his back at Greg that the angel last remembered seeing around the 11th century, Mycroft trotted off to the sound of jingle bells while Greg took Penelope’s hand and escorted her to her house where, to his surprise, she directed him to the rear and into the kitchen.

“It’s warmest here. And smells nice. Cook has the evening off since it’s Christmas Eve so she won’t know if we have some of her special biscuits early. I’m supposed to wait until tomorrow, but she made a lot and Mummy won’t miss a few.”

While Penelope dragged a chair over to climb on to reach the biscuits on the counter, Greg looked about the room and liked what he saw. A well-used kitchen with little touches here and there that said the little girl was welcome in the space. A few drawings clearly made by a child were laying on the kitchen table and there was a small-sized pinny hanging with the larger ones, sporting ‘Penelope’ embroidered on the front.

“Here. They’re very good.”

Angels didn’t need to eat, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t or couldn’t enjoy what they were eating, so he graciously accepted the biscuit and, after a bite, nodded in agreement.

“They are very good.”

“I put a plate of them in the library near the tree for you but I can eat those easily enough.”

“Fair trade.”

“Are you… here to leave gifts?”

“Ummmm… yeah, that was my intention.”

“Where’s your sack? And sleigh?”

“The… sleigh is… remember that light you saw? That was my sleigh darting off for another load of gifts while I tend to you. It’ll be back in a tick with more gifts for me to deliver, but it’s nice to have a bit of a break with these lovely biscuits in the meantime.”

If that wasn’t peak reasoning, Greg didn’t know what was. And ‘peak reasoning’ sounded a great deal less sinful than lying, which made it even better.

“Oh. That makes sense. Am… am _I_ going to get any gifts?”

“Were you a very good girl all year?”

“No.”

Penelope was better than him at honesty which was rather a black mark on the record for an angel.

“Were you a very good girl _most_ of the year?”

“Not really.”

“On balance, would you say you _more_ good than bad this year?”

Almighty Father… she’s having to think about it.

“Probably.”

“Good enough! Then, yes, I brought you a gift. A special one.”

“Like your special elf?”

“A…”

He was going to say a different sort of special but, no, it was really the same sort of special, so he’d opt not to have another blatant lie added to his ledger for the night.

“… a very special one just like my special elf. A wonderful gift that’s… just a bit different than other wonderful gifts like it. Still very wonderful, though.”

“Oh. That sound nice. Do you want some milk?”

“I… of course. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Biscuits and milk?”

“It is.”

Penelope hopped back onto her chair to take down a glass from the cupboard and then took a second and third glass down which had Greg helping her so the great Christmas visit didn’t end in a spray of glass shards from small arms trying to told large drinkware.

“Mr. Elf can have milk, too.”

“He loves milk.”

And the image of Satan drinking a glass of milk is another of the Christmas gifts a certain angel was blessing himself with this year.

“Mummy isn’t fond of milk. She usually has tea with her biscuits. Not the tea in the green box, though, because that was Daddy’s favorite and he died, so she doesn’t drink it anymore.”

Greg paused pouring the milk Penelope had gotten from the refrigerator and sighed softly. Mr. Elf was probably much closer to the mark about the desire for a puppy than this temporary Santa had wanted to admit.

“I’m sorry, Penelope. About your father.”

“It’s alright. He was sick and Mummy says once you go to Heaven you can’t be sick anymore, so that’s good. Grandpapa lives here now, though, and that’s nice, even though he mostly drinks tea and naps.”

Greg ate another biscuit and drank a few sips of milk while Penelope put more biscuits on a plate and brought them to the kitchen table, along with her own milk.

“When do I get my gift?”

Letting his angelic senses spread out in all directions, Greg smiled at the familiar voice swearing in Enochian he heard walking towards the house. Their puppy hadn’t eaten any dogs or trees, apparently, but someone was now missing a shocking number of fenceposts and their sheep were wandering about the countryside with, fortunately, only a smear of demon saliva on their wool and not missing a leg or head.

“Just a few seconds, actually. Now… remember what I said about it being a special gift?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep remembering that.”

Greg moved towards the kitchen door and made certain Mycroft could sense where to bring the puppy, laughing when he saw the bedraggled elf and the excited puppy bouncing about, quivering with delight for the Great Sheep Adventure it’d enjoyed.

“Mr. Elf! Good to see you looking in fine form.”

And if our puppy didn’t drag you a few dozen yards when you tried to convince it to leave its new wooly chums, I’ll be gobsmacked.

“Funny. Is… everything ready?”

“Yeah… bring him in. Penelope, I… ummmm… I hope you like your new friend…”

Greg stepped back and let the demonling bound into the kitchen, snorting loudly and showing its long, sharp fangs while it made a wealth of inhuman, blood-curdling noises.

Which made Penelope scream.

>

>

>

>

Then run forward and throw her arms around the demon’s neck before jumping with joy, which the demon merrily mimicked as best it could.

“A puppy! A real puppy!”

Greg and Mycroft stayed clear of the bouncing duo, who were happy to take their bouncing through the entirety of the room until a youngish woman raced into the kitchen with a look of both terror and determination on her face.

“Who are you? Why are you in my house? Penelope… are you alright?”

The questions flew out fast, but none got an answer since Greg and Mycroft were, again, dueling about who would speak first and Penelope was busy giving her new puppy as much love as her small heart could muster.

“What’s going on in here? I was sleeping!”

An old man tottered into the kitchen, waving a walking stick that was quickly unwaved when he saw the biscuit plate on the table.

“Ooh, the good ones.”

“A puppy! Santa brought me a puppy! And it’s the best puppy in the whole world…”

Now Penelope was crying and burying her face in one of the demon’s skin folds, which made the demon lean its head against her and return her joy measure for measure. Her mother, however, was not sharing that joy…

“Who are you and what… what is that! Penelope, get away from that… whatever it is!”

“Good gracious, Florence, let the girl play with her dog.”

“We don’t have a dog!”

“Of course we do. It’s right there!”

The old gent pointed with his cane at the cuddle pile on the kitchen floor and snorted his amazement that his daughter had, apparently, gone blind.

“That’s not our dog! It’s not even _a_ dog.”

“What are you going on about now?”

“Look at it!”

“What? It’s one of them foreign dogs. I’ve seen lots.”

“You have not, you old loony!”

“I absolutely have. During the war. When I served in Korea.”

“You weren’t in the war; you worked for the BBC.”

“Same thing. They had loads of strange-looking dogs running about. I’m not sure where you got one, but good on you giving the girl something she wanted and not another doll or set of hair ribbons. It’s good for a girl to run about and get muddy! You did and look how you turned out. Better than average, at least!”

Greg and Mycroft shared a look that confirmed that each was not the only one who wondered if anyone remembered they were there anymore.

“That’s enough from you, you old duffer. BUT YOU!”

They’d been remembered.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house? Giving my daughter a… that!”

Mycroft had found the hopping-and-hiding maneuver a successful one in the past and was a staunch believer in implementing tried and true strategies whenever possible. Which left Greg front and center to smile a nervous smile and try a jolly Ho Ho Ho. None of that, however, seemed a tried and true strategy dealing with angry mothers.

“Don’t Ho Ho Ho at me you… housebreaker!”

“No! No, we didn’t break into your house, we were invited and ummmm… we’re here to spread Christmas cheer!”

Greg reached back and grabbed Mycroft’s arm to lift and waggle so the jingle bells could underscore his holiday pronouncement.

“Wrong. There’s nothing cheerful about… whatever that is.”

_ That _ currently being the puppy which was helping Penelope lift it so she could carry him. That the lifting was accomplished more easily than when Greg tried made the angel wonder if he needed to start exercising.

“Are you still banging on about that dog, Florence? Eat a biscuit, you’ll feel better.”

The old man put a biscuit in her hand, then one in the elf hand that had shot out from behind Greg because suffering humiliation _with_ a biscuit was leagues better than suffering humiliation _without_ one in said elf’s opinion.

“Two strange men are in our house and that’s all you have to say? Eat a biscuit?”

“Yep.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. What can you possibly be moaning about? They’re probably some of those twats the Council hires for this or that bit of do-goodery at Christmas.”

“Do-goodery! Does that look do-goodery to you!”

_ That _ currently being Penelope letting the puppy crawl carefully from her and onto the counter to eat one plate of biscuits, plate and all, then knock biscuits off another plate for her to catch and eat while she sang a self-created Christmas biscuit song that, unsurprisingly, featured puppies.

“Yep. Dogs can be a mischief, that’s for certain. Look how happy the girl is, though. You two, how’d you know she wanted a dog? That Porter woman at the pub, wasn’t it! Meddlesome old baggage, not that it didn’t do a bit of good this time, though, so I’ll buy her a gin next time she’s talking my ear off about her garden.”

Mycroft nudged Greg sharply in the back which the angel correctly interpreted as his being elected once again to take point in the conversation. To ensure compliance, Mycroft shoved another biscuit into his mouth and made certain Greg could hear his determined chewing.

“Ummm…. not quite, sir. Penelope wrote a letter to Santa, you see, and it got a bit… misdirected. We thought _we_ could step in and see her get her Christmas wish, instead.” 

“Good! Saves me the cost of a gin and tonic. Told you, Florence. Council twats.”

Mycroft gave the old man’s soul a thorough inspection and was disappointed that it was far less black than was required for entrance into his domain because he had no real idea what _was_ a twat, but highly suspected it was something rude.

On her part, Penelope’s mother was doing her level best to calm her temper and make sense of the Christmas chaos exploding around her. Two strangers in her house, a… foreign dog… that just ate the toaster and her father being… himself.

However… her daughter was happy. Deliriously happy and wearing a larger smile than she’d seen in a long time. Dogs were enormous amounts of work and the very last thing she needed was more work on her plate, but… if it gave her daughter back her smile, then the work was more than worth it.

“Fine. Fine! I suppose we can keep it. But hear me well, Penelope, you have to take care of it. It’s your responsibility now.”

“Not it, Mummy. He. Or Viscount Jeffrey Up Your Bum Strudel, which is his name. It has to be a long one, you see, like the fancy dogs on the telly. Because he’s special.”

Penelope’s mother drew in a deep breath and was happy that the Santa person looked as shocked as she did, even though her father and the elf found the whole thing absolutely hysterical. Twats.

“Well… we’ll just call him Jeffrey, what say and leave the rest for when he goes to Crufts.”

“Ok. Unless he’s naughty, then you say the whole thing like you do for me when you wag your finger and call me Penelope Violet.”

Who was somewhat living up to her name by tying a jaunty red flower to one of her puppy’s horns to match the one she’d tucked behind her own ear.

“We… we can talk about that later. I suppose, then, I should thank you two for bringing Penelope her new friend. Now, leave.”

Greg knew when to seize the moment and nodded Mycroft towards the door, but neither made it before a small, nightdress wearing figure shot across the kitchen and gave both of them large hugs which, given her size, meant wrapping her arms around their legs and squeezing tight.

“Thank you Santa and Mr. Elf. Thank so much for my puppy!”

Greg caught the look on Mycroft’s face and decided he was, once more, the elected spokesman.

“You’re welcome Penelope. We’re… we’re just happy you love it.”

“I do. I love him madly. We’re going to be the best of friends and when that wicked Audrey Blair says my hair is silly again because she’s jealous I have curls and she doesn’t, Jeffrey will eat her bicycle and I’ll laugh.”

A cackled ‘That’s my girl!’ preceded Mycroft and Greg being hustled out the door which was firmly closed behind them.

“Well, Mycroft. Job well done, I’d say.”

“I… yes, I agree.”

Greg caught the cut of Mycroft’s eyes, first down to his legs, then back to the house and smiled warmly.

“Yeah, that’s a hug. Or, at least as good a hug as a very small child can deliver which, I have to admit, is very good indeed.”

And, given the Christmas spirit and… something else… was running high…

“Now, it’s my turn.”

Greg reached out and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, worrying a moment as the demon’s body stiffened as rigid as an iron bar, then losing the worry when it relaxed and Mycroft’s arms came to up to return the embrace.

Which lingered quite a pleasant while.

“You know, Mycroft, I suspect, from some… research… I’ve done that the pub the old gentleman mentioned is likely open right now. Is it… can you stay here long enough for us to pop in and have a drink? Humans are particularly merry at Christmas and it might be fun to watch them for awhile and see what they’re doing now for alcohol. If… if you’d like that, that is.”

Mycroft blinked. Then blinked again, then resisted the urge to look behind him to see if he’d misheard and Greg was actually speaking to someone who’d walked up behind them and seemed a jolly sort to ask to share a drink.

“You… wish to socialize with me?”

“Sure! It’s a lovely night, so we can have a stroll, revel in our success, then bide an hour or two doing something fun and different. What do you say?”

Mycroft sucked in a breath and debated saying he was near the end of his tether here on Earth, which was a lie, then decided he had no desire to lie to the angel and, further, the idea was… appealing. Much was appealing about Gregory at the moment and this was a welcome addition to the unexpected Christmas gift basket.

“I would enjoy that, Gregory. Thank you.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Mycroft returned Greg to normal appearance and with a nod of approval, Greg returned the favor, though he worked a small extra miracle to make their clothes a little closer to human standard.

“Now we’ll blend in a bit better. I sense a surge of festivity over in that direction, so shall we investigate?”

Straightening his new jumper, Mycroft found himself smiling and making an ‘after you’ gesture to start them on their way.

_ Gregory… _

Greg startled at the voice in his head. One he recognized instantly, but hadn’t heard addressing him personally in a very long time.

_ Look up… _

Slowly rolling his eyes upward, Greg broke into a grin and patted Mycroft on the arm, pointing to the sky to get His Satanic Majesty to look, too.

“I think our good deed is getting a bit of a boost.”

Mycroft felt something very unfamiliar rise in his chest as he watched the small balls of light racing upwards to the heavens, each one surrounding a gleeful resident of his shelter and a few more that he had yet to find in his travels through hell.

“It seems my innocents will gain the fate they deserve.”

“All puppies go to Heaven.”

“That they do, Gregory. And I could not be gladder for it.”

“This calls, dare I say it, for not one but _two_ drinks in celebration of our fine night.”

“I agree. And… perhaps we might find it within ourselves not to make such a thing a… singular occasion.”

Greg turned his smile to Mycroft and adored the rather shy one he received in return.

“I think we can definitely find it within ourselves to make this a regular occasion.”

“I shall ensure my wine cellars are stocked and waiting.”

The two men, angel and demon, walked along the road towards the pub feeling the joy of another Christmas miracle blooming in their hearts and knew, without a doubt, that there would be other miracles in the years to come. Small ones, mostly, but each precious and cherished for, in Hell, miracles were rare things, indeed.

Of course, when one found a true friend… or something slightly more than a friend… that was a miracle to last a lifetime, no matter how long that lifetime might be. 


End file.
